


Dream Come True

by victorianvirgil



Series: A Melody of Burning Matches [3]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: 80s band au, Biphobia, Homophobia, Homophobic Slurs, Internalized Biphobia, M/M, Mentions of Underage Sex, Prinxiety - Freeform, also virgil irons could kill me like honestly, but if you enjoy this i recommend reading it, i know it's super long and this is rather short, mentions of underage drug use and drinking, this is a ficlet for a melody of burning matches but if you want you don't have to read it, total self-promo but hey why not i love amobm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-11 22:01:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20553356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorianvirgil/pseuds/victorianvirgil
Summary: A Melody of Burning Matches ficlet to be read after chapter 5 (continue on at your own risk of spoilers)Before Virgil Irons' name was known throughout the world, he was a fifteen year old kid struggling to find his purpose. How he could get rid of his acne, if cutting his hair would actually mean that he would stop being bullied, and why Roman Castillo seemed to make it so hard for him to breathe.





	Dream Come True

**Author's Note:**

> i recommend listening to aerosmith's "dream on", the song in which the title is derived from. it kind of bangs and i feel like it's a vibe for this.

_May 5, 1976_

Most children experienced one level of hell or another during their two years of junior high and freshman year of high school, Virgil Irons being no exception to this rule. Being rather scrawny for his age—_ which is nothing to worry about, Virge, _ his father would remind him, _ you’ll grow out of it _—he was an easy target for the boys in his grade that had already begun to shave. Whatever he had done in his past life to deserve this was beyond him, but it must’ve been something absolutely horrific. Nothing but murder could result in having his head shoved into a toilet bowl between almost every single one of his classes for the third year in a row.

Simon Castillo claimed that it was because he didn’t stand up for himself. That and his grown-out hair, the tips of his dark locks brushing his shoulders.

“A mama’s boy haircut,” the soon-to-be-graduating senior had teased, feet kicked up on the table of the breakroom of the small bookshop both he and Virgil’s mom worked at, lifting a joint to his lips as he continued. “Bet she tucks the hair behind you’re ear and says you’re her little rockstar.”

She did, although he knew it was rhetorical and decided against responding.

“Well, hate to break it to you, Irons, but rock and roll is out—sex is in.”

Virgil hadn’t thought there was a difference, but later that week, he cut his hair. The next time he accompanied his mom to work, Simon nodded in approval.

“Better,” he said before glancing at Shirley Irons, who gave him a knowing look. Simon didn’t give her a hard time that day, leaving Virgil alone in the backroom with his guitar. Until his break, at least, but Virgil wasn’t bothered by the bottle he was offered and the company that came with it. Not one bit.

“You’re fifteen, yeah?”

He hummed in response, swallowing the liquor. It was cheap and burned as it went down his throat, but he was used to it by now.

“Those were the days . . . have you gotten blown by some slut with braces yet?”

Virgil lowered the bottle—still in the paper bag it had been handed to him in— before passing it back to Simon, shaking his head as he did so. “No, not really interested in that, man."

“You a fag or something?”

Scrunching his nose in distaste, Virgil shifted his guitar off his lap. “Don’t be stupid, Si. ‘Course not.”

After studying him for a moment, as if seeing whether or not he was telling the truth, Simon nodded in agreement. Then he started to explain the wonders of sex.

“Kissing is fun and all but what comes after . . . oh Virgil, it’s hard to put into words.”

Virgil, despite himself, couldn’t help the faint red hue that spread across his cheeks at the thought.

“Masturbating is one thing, having some moaning bitch beneath you is so much better,” Simon continued, eyes glossed over as he took a slow sip from the bottle. “It’s better than your average jack-off material in magazines, even if she’s nothing special. Just being able to touch her, fuck her until she’s screaming is enough.”

Simon was looking at Virgil as if expecting the other to take notes. He was half-tempted to.

“You had your first kiss, right?” A nod. “Okay, good, that’s good. Now it doesn’t matter who she is, a virgin or some slut, it’s all the same. And it’s simple, really-”

Virgil had never really thought about sex before, at least outside the confines of his darkened bedroom in the late hours of the night. Fifteen years and it was only after meeting Simon did he start to look at girls and wonder what they would look like naked, how they would react if he pinned them to a wall. How Louise would quiver beneath him and gasp his name when his hand slipped up her shirt, how tight Marie would feel around his cock as he pounded into her.

And then there was Angela.

She was, without a doubt, the most gorgeous girl in his school, all long legs leading up to a tiny waist, breasts full and eyes pooling with love for the world. Virgil knew he wasn’t the only one staring at her between classes, admiring the way she seemed to effortlessly float through the hallways, hand in hand with her boyfriend.

Simon’s younger brother Roman was nothing special though, Virgil wasn’t sure what she even saw in him.

While he merely watched Angela from a distance, the thought of her never strayed too far from him. In math, even closing his eyes for a moment would mean seeing her in nothing but a pair of pink panties and a filthy grin or, when alone in his room, wearing even less and moving closer. While there was little he could do with the fantasies in class but shake them off, in his bed well after midnight, he could fist his cock to the thought of her pretty lips parted, mouth full of him as he gripped her hair, even if he hadn’t a single interaction with her in the hallways.

“Fuck,” he mumbled between gritted teeth, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he increased the pace of his hand. Angela, Angela, _ Angela, _ so easy to see on her knees for him. Long hair and long lashes, manicured hands gripping the back of his thighs as she took his cock. She would look so small, so vulnerable and she would be completely his, completely at his disposal.

Lost in the thought of her touch, she started to morph within his mind. Short hair, darkened skin, and a strong jaw, moaning against his length in a soul-shattering manner. Deep and masculine, so strong and wouldn’t break no matter how hard they went. Not gentle, feminine Angela. Not at all.

“Oh, _ Roman.” _

The world stopped, then, holding its breath. Virgil opened his eyes, fear clouding in them as he tore his hand from his boxers and still-throbbing erection. His hand was shaking, he was shaking, but all he could do was turn off his flashlight and hide the Playboy magazines beneath his mattress, rolling onto his side and pretending as if nothing had ever happened.

He didn’t sleep at all that night, nor the next.

Suddenly, Roman was everywhere he looked. They had only a couple of classes together, but in the hallway, carrying the books of another girl about a week after he and Angela split, Virgil couldn’t help but notice him. In their shared music class, whenever Ms. Kaplan directed the class’ attention to him, Roman’s eyes were the only ones he felt.

He wasn’t gay, Virgil knew that for sure, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Roman. The way he would quiver beneath him, gasp his name as Virgil slipped his hand down his pants. How tight he would feel around his cock.

It wasn’t until reading an article about Bowie did he have a name for what he was, that his experience wasn’t unique and he wasn’t alone. That he wasn’t the only one that liked both. Guys and girls.

Bisexual.

-

While his realization was a weight off his shoulders, it was also a burden he was forced to carry alone. A year came and went before he told his older sister Aliya about his sexuality, the freshman in college all the more experienced with the world they lived in and was therefore capable of giving him a pearl of wisdom:

“I love you, V, but focus on the girls. Now is not the time or place for that.”

Years and years later, she would apologize for her blatant biphobia, but 1977 had been an entirely different time, a different world. And besides, sticking to girls was what he had been planning to do anyway, at least until college when he moved to Los Angeles or New York. Because even though they had been raised together, he didn’t expect Aliya to understand, nor did he expect his friends to—even though they were all musically attuned.

And then there was the fact that he finally progressed from having his head dunked into a toilet every period to being ignored by the majority of his peers, and by God would he do all he could to make sure that he never went back.

He was strumming his guitar mindlessly, head down and ignoring the buzz of chatter in the music room. Study periods were normally like this, Ms. Kaplan letting him do his thing in the corner while she taught whatever class she had. But she was outside talking to a student she had caught rolling a joint—a senior who clearly no longer gave a fuck—and no one seemed to be doing what they were supposed to. A small group of boys were messing around with drums, two of them beating each other with drumsticks.

“Hey, Virge,” a voice called out to him, rising to be heard above the trio of junior girls butchering Wings’ “Silly Love Songs”. And thank God for that, because he had been seconds away from snapping.

“Hey, Pat.” When Virgil lifted his gaze, he couldn’t help but smile at the sight of Patton Lamoureux. Big framed glasses acted as a barrier between the boy’s bright blue eyes and the rest of the world, making his slim and tiny figure appear all the smaller. Light brown hair swept back and made him look lighter, and skin almost as pale as Virgil’s whispered of the frigid winters he spent in his home country during his early childhood. “What’s up?”

Patton pulled up a seat next to him, straddling the back of it and crossing his arms over the top, “So, I had an idea.”

“I can only imagine where this is going.”

“No no, it’s fine. I’m not the crazy one, you know.”

He wasn’t, that would be Roman, of course, and it took all of Virgil’s will to not look over at him then. He was singing a love song to his conquest-of-the-week, a button or two more than necessary undone on his patterned butterfly collared shirt and exposing a sliver of smooth, tanned skin.

“Actually though, I had a good idea.” Then, after pausing for dramatic effect, “Summer Fest.”

Virgil visibly paused, fingers slipping down from his strings and resting in his lap. With his full attention turned to Patton, he waited for his friend to continue.

“I think it’d be fun,” Patton continued, as if needing to convince Virgil. “You, me, Roman, and James. Mark never shows up to band practice because he’s on the football team and has a girlfriend and all that, but you’re better than him anyway. You’re the best guitarist in the school.”

“I don’t know about th-”

“You are,” affirmed Patton without hesitation, “absolutely. I’m pretty good with the drums and Roman is an incredible singer, so it would only make sense if we were all in a band together.”

Virgil’s heart skipped a beat, whether it be from finally getting the chance to perform with talented musicians or the proposition of spending more time with Roman, he wasn’t sure. “And show those cocky, talentless upperclassmen how to play?”

“Exactly.” A very un-Pattonlike response, but it drew a grin from Virgil anyway.

“Okay, then,” he said. “I’m in.”

Patton nodded, pulling himself up from the chair, “Cool, I’ll just talk to Roman and James. Band practices are normally on Thursdays, but because it’s two weeks away, we’ll be going everyday. As long as you learn the songs and go to a few practices, we’ll be all set for the show.”

With a final nod from Virgil, Patton left and returned to his drums to assist a freshman in keeping a steady beat. Roman joined him, abandoning the girl he had been serenading moments before and who was staring at him adoringly from across the room.

Unable to help himself, Virgil’s fingers fell back to the strings of his guitar, bowing his head as he began to caress them, a gentle tune carrying.

It shouldn’t have affected him as much as it did, a silly little crush making him want to write a hundred love songs. Laughter involuntarily rose Virgil’s gaze, drawing his attention to Roman—a hand on Patton’s shoulder and a radiant smile across his lips.

A thousand love songs.

Virgil’s muse suddenly met his eyes, time slowing to a total stop as they observed each other. The bell rang and Virgil rose from his chair, guitar in hand and eyes still on Roman’s, moving towards him to discuss Summer Fest and the songs they would be performing. Ms. Kaplan finally came back into the room, telling everyone to take their seats. In the controlled chaos of the students doing as they were told, Virgil swam upstream to reach Roman and Patton by the drumset—formally introduce himself to the boy with a starring role in more than a few of his fantasies, benign or otherwise.

Before he could say a word, Roman, now with his back to Virgil, said to Patton, “God, don’t tell me you asked _ him _. He’s a fag, you know.”

“Roman!” Patton exasperatedly said, eyes flickering behind his friend. To Virgil, who was standing there looking rather stunned. But Roman continued.

“Seriously, Pat-”

“Enough, Your Highness,” Virgil said, face reddened with anger but his voice terrifyingly even. A chilling cold, and when Roman turned with widened eyes, he seemed to be able to sense it. “That shit may fly with your subjects, but don’t talk to me like that.”

“And what are you going to do about it?” For whatever reason, Roman’s brown eyes seemed to flicker with crimson flames. It wasn’t until half a decade passed did he realize that it was anger not towards Virgil, but himself. At sixteen, though, Virgil couldn’t differentiate between the two and, more importantly, neither could Roman.

Without hesitation, Virgil grabbed Roman’s bicep and aggressively tugged him closer, demanding eye contact and accepting nothing less. Although Roman had two inches on him, he did it with ease. “Nothing,” he said, heart pounding in his chest with Roman so close to him. His body was reacting despite him willing it not to. “But I’ll outshine you during Summer Fest.”

“In your dreams.”

They both pushed away then, Virgil not taking a second look as he picked his guitar back up—not even remembering when he even put it down—and stormed out the door with the determination of a hurricane. And Roman, although he couldn’t see him, watched him go with something indistinguishable in his eyes.

Patton, however, had witnessed the entire interaction, and when Roman turned back to him, he merely shook his head while releasing a deep sigh. But that was all.

-

Two weeks passed, uneventful except for Patton profusely apologizing on his best friend’s behalf. Virgil told him that it was fine, that it didn’t matter and that he had some friends to play with anyways.

He never called their group a band, he couldn’t lie to Patton.

Charlie and Emile played the flute and clarinet respectively. Both were hesitant when Virgil asked them to play drums and bass for his Summer Fest band The Silent Spectors, but eventually, they agreed. They weren’t terrible on either, but it was obvious they were band geeks and not performers.

And so for two weeks after school they played for five hours every day, Charlie and Emile eventually passable on their instruments. Besides, Virgil was the star of the show, their guitarist and singer.

Summer Fest had been wonderful in theory—even Simon agreed that it was a pretty cool thing for him to do—but when Virgil stood on stage on the fourth of June, the two other spectors flanking him and staring into the merciless crowd of his peers, he was beginning to think it was more calamitous than anything.

The majority of the school was there, hundreds of eyes on him. Thousands, it seemed. And in the courtyard on a stage raised only a few feet up, he could see each and every one of them. Some held interest, others boredom.

He met Roman’s eyes then, standing besides Patton near the back of the crowd.

“I’m Virgil Irons, Charlie Akio’s on drums and Emile Amsel’s is the one with the bass. We’re The Silent Spectors and you’ve probably heard this one.”

But of course they had, and when Virgil placed his fingers over the strings of his guitar, taking a deep breath before playing the first notes of “Layla”_ , _ the crowd was already screaming for them. For him.

Virgil sang as harshly as he dared, emphasizing words differently than Clapton, but the crowd didn’t seem to mind. Not at all.

_ “Layla _ ,” they shouted back to him and Virgil grinned into the microphone, eyes focused on his fingers. He was too nervous to look up, even if with every word and note he grew more comfortable on stage, nearly screaming a final _ “darling ease my troubled mind” _ before kicking into his screeching guitar solo. The cheering was thunderous, audible over their deafening instruments and as Virgil finished his solo— the three of them having decided to end the song a little after the three minute mark instead of fading into the much softer instrumental that required them a keyboardist— he looked up.

The crowd was on their feet, clapping and whooping for him. Behind Virgil, Charlie and Emile were bashful, but he was radiating, leaning in to say a simple “Thank you” into his microphone.

This is what he was going to do with the rest of his life, he knew that then.

They kicked into the next song, this time Charlie starting with the drums followed by Emile on his bass. When Virgil joined with his guitar for “Walk this Way”, the reaction he got from the crowd was even louder. The football team—who normally treated Summer Fest as an opportunity to loudly make fun of all the performances—were shouting along to the verses. They were quick and it was easy to grow tongue-tied, but they didn’t falter and despite the difficult guitar parts, neither did Virgil.

After the last note, Virgil waited for the applause to die down before saying, “Thank you for the stellar backup vocals, football team. If there’s ever an opportunity for an all-male a capella group, Ms. Kaplan, you know who to call.

“And now, our last song of the night. Feel free to sing along.”

The start was slower than the first two, more gentle and overall soft. While Virgil had sang as raspy as Eric Clapton and Steven Tyler before, he strove for a lightness in his voice for their last song.

“More Than a Feeling” required a larger range, more talent in the vocal portion while also proving mildly difficult on guitar, but Virgil performed it flawlessly.

_ “When I’m tired, and thinkin’ cold,” _ he sang, eyes raised and scanning the crowd—no longer needing to bow his head in submission, no, he loved his audience now. And they loved him, leaning in as if he were telling them his darkest secret. _ “I hide in my music, forget the day.” _

There, he was there with an unreadable expression on his face. Virgil knew Roman could read him, it was so damn obvious in the words—although not his own—and how he sang them. _ “I closed my eyes and slipped away.” _

And then, without thinking, _ “He slipped away.” _

Luckily, the key change and his solo covered his mistake.

His guitar was the last instrument to fade to silence, hardly even audible over his friends, acquaintances, teachers, and the rest of the adoring student body. Not a single person was still seated.

Not one.

Charlie and Emile had disappeared behind him, leaving Virgil to raise a small hand in thanks before glancing up at them again. Their praise smothered him, adoration like nothing he had ever felt before.

Simon, having lingered in the back of the crowd with his stoner friends, was nodding in approval, probably too drunk to do much else. And then there was Patton, offering him a brilliant smile and a thumbs up from his spot. Virgil’s heart swelled.

Steven Tyler had said it himself, it was a dream come true.

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys,
> 
> sorry for the late upload, seriously, but i banged out the last 1.5k this morning and i'm glad i waited bc this would've been trash without it. like, utter garbage.
> 
> to my loyal amobm fans, i hope y'all enjoyed this bit of backstory between virgil irons and roman castillo. i had this idea for a long time and i was so excited to not only write it, but share it with you. to those of you who aren't following amobm, i hope you enjoyed anyway! i tried to keep it general enough where you don't really need the main fic to get it, but if you all read a melody of burning matches, you'll see a bunch of little easter eggs.
> 
> regardless, i hope you enjoyed!  
ronnie


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